


Missing Her

by calathea



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benton was eight the summer they moved to Aklavik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Her

Benton was eight the summer they moved to Aklavik. The house they rented was bigger than usual - two bedrooms, a large living room, even a sizeable kitchen. His grandmother muttered under her breath about the standards of cleanliness of the previous tenants and spent most of their first day in the house scrubbing the kitchen floor. His grandfather shook his head over the likely cost of heating the house in the winter. Benton, though, was delighted with his new home; with the novelty of having his own room, by his grandfather's promise that they would stay at least a year.

They been living there about two weeks when Benton's father arrived, bouncing over the rutted road in a Jeep packed with boxes. Benton ran out to greet him. "Dad! Dad! I didn't know you were coming!" He threw his arms around his father's waist.

For a moment, his father didn't move, stayed stiff and unresponsive. Then he reached one hand up and ruffled Benton's hair, before pushing at his shoulder a little to detach him. "Hello, son," he said, before raising a hand in greeting to Benton's grandparents.

Later that day, he helped his father and grandfather unload the Jeep. As he walked back and forth with the smaller boxes, stacking them just inside the door, he caught fragments of their conversation. "...moving on from my current posting," his father was saying. "Nowhere to store..."

His grandfather was nodding. "We'll look after it, son."

Last out of the Jeep was a large brown trunk with two heavy clasps, which the two men carried between them into the house. Benton stayed behind to close the car doors. When he went into the house, his father was emerging from his room. "Had to put it in there, son," he said, "That all right?"

Benton nodded his head mutely, and went into his room. The trunk filled one corner. "What's in it?" Benton asked, tugging at on of the clasps.

"Leave it alone. It's locked." His father's voice was harsh. Benton looked up at him in confusion, and stepped away from the trunk. "Come and eat now." He beckoned to Benton, and they left the room.

His father stayed almost a full week. On the last night of his visit, they had a special meal together, the four of them. It was a quiet meal, the only noise the chink of knives and forks against their earthenware plates. Benton stayed quiet, listened when his father told a few stories of his life as a Mountie after dinner.

Eventually, the adults at the table seemed to forget he was there. "Your contract here is for a year, you said." his father said.

His grandparents looked at each other. "Well, we think so. It's not finalized yet," his grandmother replied, setting aside her napkin and starting to clear the table.

Benton froze. His father carried on speaking. "Well, if you are here, I doubt I'll make it home for Christmas. Maybe Thanksgiving, if the weather holds off, but the family men like to take that weekend."

"May I be excused?" Benton asked, his voice barely a whisper, swallowing against the ache in his throat. His grandmother looked stricken for a moment, and just nodded. He slid down from his chair and went straight to his room. Once there, he shut the door quietly, politely, and went to sit down on his bed. The trunk, though, got in his way, and he stubbed his toe on one corner. With a small, angry noise, he kicked the trunk, hard, taking out his misery on its worn leather surface. One of the clasps popped open.

He looked at the trunk for a long moment. The other clasp seemed loose as well. The edges were sharp, and dug into his fingers as he tugged at it. After only a few moments, though, the clasp was open, and he was able to lift the lid. It creaked as he raised it, and he winced, expecting his father to come rushing in at any moment. But no-one came, so he opened the lid all the way, and sat back on his heels to better inspect the neatly packed contents.

In the top of the trunk were two large white boxes. One was full of lacy white fabric, and he quickly shut that again. The other held a padded photo album. After a confused minute, he recognized some of the people in the shots. His father, looking much younger, in his red uniform, with a woman at his side in a white dress. Other Mounties, including Uncle Buck and some people he finally recognized as his grandparents all dressed up, stood grouped around them. At the back of the album there were some loose photos, of the same woman looking fat, of his father looking over her shoulder at a small blanket wrapped bundle, of them standing together with small child he supposed was himself, bundled up to the eyeballs in the snow. Losing interest, he shut the album, laid it aside in its protective box.

Underneath the boxes were some more clothes, some frilly and lacy. He tugged them out, more interested in the mysterious little boxes underneath than some moldy old clothes. He reached in again to pull out the last item of clothing.  It was a heavy sweater, pale blue in colour, the wool thick and soft in his hands. As he pulled, he caught a faint, elusive scent. He sat back down, the sweater in his lap, stroking it gently. After a minute, he raised it over his head, and pulled it on, even though it was June, even though the sweater was far too big for him. He felt safe, and comfortable, inside his blue cocoon of wool.

He was just reaching in to the trunk again when his door opened. "Benton," his father said, before breaking off sharply. Guilty, Benton leapt to his feet, the sleeves of the sweater falling over his hands. His father's breathing was choked, angry-sounding. "What are you... What have you done?" Benton felt rough hands grab hold of him; start to pull the sweater off him. He squirmed and struggled, trying to cling on to the fabric, half smothered by the material his father had already dragged over his head. "What have you done?" his father kept asking, his voice rising.

Benton could just hear the muffled thud of footsteps. "Robert!" his grandmother called, "Robert, stop it!"

His father had finally wrestled him free of the sweater, and was folding it, and the other items Benton had taken out, back into the trunk. It was not as neat as before, but his father didn't seem to care. After only a few moments, the white boxes were crammed into the top of the trunk, the lid was slammed down, and the clasps clicked shut once again. His father's hands were shaking. "I told him to leave it alone," was all he said before leaving the room.

He grandfather followed, leaving only Benton and his grandmother. Benton felt sick from fear, and the ache of tears was back in his throat. Slowly, he moved towards his bed, and began to dress himself in his pajamas, his grandmother coming to help when she saw how his hands trembled on the buttons of his pajama top. "It will be all right," she whispered, as she tucked him in to bed. "It will be better in the morning."

She left him lying in bed, closing the door behind her. He could hear voices rising and falling in the next room for a long time, but though he strained his ears, he could not hear what was being said. His eyes began to close.

When the door opened again, he was almost asleep. The bed dipped beside his hip, and he heard a long sigh. Fingers slid into his hair, stroked down over his ear.  The silence stretched out, and he slid a little closer to sleep. When his father finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and weary. "Do you miss her, son?"

"Miss who?" he asked, his own voice a whisper.

The fingers stroked over his hair again. "Your mother."

"Yes. I think so."

Time stretched out again, and Benton drifted in and out of sleep, feeling the calloused skin of his father's hand, rough against his forehead and cheek. He thought he felt his father kiss him and whisper, "I'm sorry, son." When he opened his eyes again though, it was morning, and his father was gone - from his room, from the house.

Benton opened his curtains, looked out at the sun to guess at the time. His father would be halfway to his post by now. As he turned back to make his bed, the light glinted off a small brass padlock, threaded through the central clasp of the trunk. The blue sweater lay neatly folded on top of the closed lid.


End file.
